It was known as such even among its own citizens—what few remained, anyway. No one thought anything of the ghastly appellation; that was simply its name, earned through centuries of warfare and sackings that had reduced the city's outer rings to crumbling ruins. For those who stayed, it was a home, no more and no less, and while it was true that you could find ribs and skulls if you chose to poke through the fallow houses on its fringes, life at the core of the city was still normal enough. Things had changed since Samarand's aborted war against Mallon some six years ago. The pine forests that infiltrated the city's old borders had disappeared, cleared for timber and tilled for crops. Fresh-cut wooden homes replaced most of the old stone ruins. The rasp of saws was like steady breathing; the rap of hammers a heartbeat. To the north, a high green hill considered the city, the site of the cemetery where Larrimore was buried. Past the outermost homes, the Pridegate circled Narashtovik's interior.
